I meant to write about death, only life came breaking in as usual. I like, I see, to question people about death. I have taken it into my head that I shan’t live until 70. Suppose, I said to myself the other day this pain over my heart suddenly wrung me out like a dish cloth & left me dead?-I was feeling sleepy, indifferent, & calm; & so thought it didn’t much matter, except for L. Then, some bird or light I daresay, or waking wider, set me off wishing to live on my own-wishing chiefly to walk along the river & look at things.

Virginia Woolf in her diary, Friday 17 1922 (via vwvw)

On February 11, 1963 Sylvia Plath committed suicide. Fifty years after her death, her poetry continues to haunt and inspire millions of readers, including myself. Today, I hope many of you will pick up Ariel or The Bell Jar or any other Plath book and remember not just her tragically short life but her brilliant and electrifying work. That is certainly what I intend to do.

On February 11, 1963 Sylvia Plath committed suicide. Fifty years after her death, her poetry continues to haunt and inspire millions of readers, including myself. Today, I hope many of you will pick up Ariel or The Bell Jar or any other Plath book and remember not just her tragically short life but her brilliant and electrifying work. That is certainly what I intend to do.